


Louvre Palace, Paris, 23 September 1637

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [38]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Franco-Spanish War, Gen, Interviews, Military, Politics, Some Historical Fudging, Thirty Years War, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24185938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: Tréville is always busy, but that doesn’t mean he can’t find time to help out a regiment going through difficult times. And gather a little intelligence.*Another installment in the long series of pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).
Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/944322
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Louvre Palace, Paris, 23 September 1637

Tréville strides into his office, sweeping the other in on the way. “Come on in, I’ll not keep you long.” The man’s been waiting for at least half an hour, but he looks reasonably calm about it, very little hint of impatience.

Good quality in a guard, after all.

“Right!” he says, rounding his desk and propping himself forward on his knuckles. “Marcheaux, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

In this light, there are a couple of hints of either nerves or impatience. He has brushed his hair with his spare hand twice since coming to rest, eyes staring straight ahead, helmet tucked under his left arm. He’s not frowning, but his brows are low, and the hand under the helmet is clenched.

Well, maybe his first time in the Palace after all.

They stare at each other a while longer, until he dives to his paperwork. “Georges, yes?”

“Yes, sir. Marcheaux, sir”

“How can I help, Marchand?”

“Marcheaux, sir. I– well, I was told to come here.”

Accent not quite Parisian, not quite rural, maybe Northwestern – he’s the colouring for it. He’s been ironing out his vowels for better society for a while, this one. And now he’s here.

He raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“To, er, to report, sir.”

He lowers them. “On behalf of…?”

“The regiment, sir. The Red Guard, sir.”

“And why you, Marcheaux?”

“Volunteered, sir.”

He narrows his eyes, still playing up the clumsy superior. “Why?”

He coughs lightly into his fist. “No-one else wanted to, sir.”

He flattens his lips at this one, a gesture Madame d’Artagnan (and Athos) would recognise for the smirk it is. To this man, it presumably looks more like impatience or distaste.

“I see.” He looks him up and down, takes the deep breath of a man marshalling his temper.

He flings an arm out, palm a blade. “Will you take a seat?”

“Oh!” For a second he looks as though he’s going to _prefer to stand_ , then amends his stance “Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

Tréville sits, watching the man haul the nearest chair up to the table, then decide what to do with his helmet – lap or underneath? Lap or… Lap, then.

He brushes his hair over again. Interesting little habit.

He smiles calmly at him, fingers interlinked on the desk. “Well, then,” he says, “as you know, you won’t be reporting to me for long – that’ll come under the Governor of Paris’s jurisdiction, and the King intends to announce the filling of the post soon, at the St. Martin’s Day Parade.” The skin under the man’s eye tightens briefly. Right. “So we can keep this simple until then – just tell me what you’ve been up to, what you’ve got planned, but mostly just let me know about anything urgent, anything you need me to step in with; I’ll trust you to get on with daily tasks, etc. You don’t need me holding your hands – you’ve all been doing this job long enough. Alright?”

The man blinks and nods.

“Now, what have you got for me?”

He nods again, clears his throat, and fishes out a piece of paper, from which he reads, in a rather dead voice, the latest patrols and personnel changes. It is so much in the late Suchet’s style that he rather suspects that it was, in fact, the last one he wrote. He holds up his hand until Marcheaux notices and grinds to a halt.

“You can just give me that to read,” (for Robert to read) he tells him, reaching over the desk. Yes, Suchet’s careful hand. “In future just give me – or my secretary – one of these and let me know about anything you need, people higher up who aren’t moving fast enough, that kind of thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you getting on with finding a replacement Captain?”

The question clearly throws him momentarily, and a whole series of tightenings followed by blanknesses cross his face in fascinating and fast profusion. “Well, sir,” he gets out eventually, “we kind of thought maybe you but, um, it’s a bit difficult, what with, er…”

He raises an eyebrow, “I take it you’re referring to the fact that his deputy seems implicated in his death.”

He clears his throat. “Er, yeah. Yes. Sir. Um. We’re just following what we did before, working out shifts between us, kind of thing.”

“And drawing lots for the less pleasant duties.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” he says, “doubtless the new Governor will have that all in hand come November. In the meantime, has anyone told you where to draw wages from?”

He looks startled. “No, sir.”

“I’ll get someone to take you. If that’s all…?”

“Er, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Very well,” and he stands, prompting a clatter upward from the Red Guard, extends his hand, “I look forward to seeing more of you over the coming weeks, Lieutenant Marcheaux. Same kind of time next week?”

“Yes, er, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The man shakes his head briefly, as if to clear it, juggles his helmet back under his arm, steps forward, takes and tugs his hand firmly, another frown gathering on him, turns, looks at the chair, “Leave it, it’s fine.”

“Oh. Fine. Good. Thank you, sir.”

Tréville smiles tightly, walks him to the door, passing him the sealed note he’d already prepared, and instructs a waiting servant to accompany the lieutenant to the correct office to draw the Red Guard wages.

When the man’s safely on his way, he sits and lets the impressions of the interview settle in him. And then turns to the next thing on his ever-growing list.

**Author's Note:**

> Short one this week (I’m trying to stick to a weekly update schedule, regardless of length – chapters of individual works may come more frequently than that, but I make no promises, just in case). Just wanted to drop this wee bit of character studying in…


End file.
